


Desertification

by consultingsmartass (consulting_smartass)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bittersweet Ending, Depression, Friendship, Frottage, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tattoos, mentions of Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Freeform, tattooing, timeline jumps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 07:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5038903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consultingsmartass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets a tattoo request from an unexpected client while in Afghanistan. Years later, shortly after Sherlock has jumped from Barts, he has the opportunity to check up on the state of both the tattoo and the recipient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desertification

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lestradesexwife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Adventure of the Tattooed Doctor.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/821939) by [Lestradesexwife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/pseuds/Lestradesexwife). 



> This is a birthday gift for my most loveliest of lexxxes. I hope you do not mind that I stole into your universe, played with your creations, and then tried to sneak off without getting caught. It started out really PWP and then I asked [pangodillO](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pangodillO/pseuds/pangodillO) one question and suddenly there was a bunch of plot. So, sorry?  
>  
> 
> The first and last parts happen after [The Adventure of the Tattooed Doctor](http://archiveofourown.org/works/821939/chapters/1557882) but before [Paint Myself in Blue and Red](http://archiveofourown.org/works/858033/chapters/1642986). I do not believe you have to have read either for this to make sense, as I attempted to leave enough contextual clues to explain the circumstances.  
>   
> And last and most importantly - SO many thanks to [pangodillO](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pangodillO/pseuds/pangodillO) and [masked-alias](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked_n_loaded/pseuds/masked-alias) for betaing. You both are totally amazing. ♡ -CS

\- - -

The bell above the front door of the tattoo shop rings.

Since he’s not on call for a few hours, John doesn’t even bother turning on his stool. Mary is in charge of walk-ins right now - he’s supposed to be preparing his station for a massive back piece later that evening.

John hears her get up and greet the customer, then tunes out the rest of the interaction in favour of griping under his breath at the misbehaving spring mounting screw on his tattoo gun.

“Cheap knock-off,” John mutters, trying to re-thread the screw without destroying it or ruining the anchor. “Pretty sure this batch is a bunch of duds. Figures - the supply shop was rather keen on getting rid of them.”

The conversation at the front quiets and Mary calls to him. “I think this one’s yours, John.”

“Mine?” grumbles John under his breath, and then louder, “I’m a bit busy. Aren’t you up?”

“No, he’s not a walk-in.”

Has his client arrived early? Had a change of heart about the location again? They _had_ been a bit waffly about the placement at their initial appointment.

John relents with a stamped-off frustrated sigh. “Send ‘em back, then. And you should know that these new screws you ordered are junk.”

Mary pokes her head in. “Already called and they’re going to send replacements plus that prototype pedal as apology.”

“Yeah, they’d better. These are complete rubbish.”

Mary smirks. “Yeah, they are. And I wasn’t kidding about this one being all yours,” she inclines her head back.

John refocuses on his tray and the finicky screw. “Don’t you have a mermaid to finish sketching or something?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. You know how much I hate pin-ups,” she calls out as she leaves.

The client replaces Mary in the doorway a moment later, and John doesn’t bother looking up.

“Be with you shortly. You can take a seat if you want.” He gestures vaguely toward the chair in the corner where significant others and supportive friends often sit.

No movement. Not the back-piece client either, too tall. Probably a repeat customer - they tend to be much less antsy about getting immediate attention.

“Captain.”

The voice is familiar but from another time and place, incongruous from his current surroundings. John sets down the tattoo gun and swivels on the stool to face the door, wondering if his ears have deceived him.

They haven’t. Standing tall and rigid before him is his former commander, Major James Sholto. It’s a dissonant moment - the sudden meshing of past and present. The smells of ink and sweat are the same here as they were in Afghanistan, but the sounds are completely different. The background din of Mary on the other side of the partition and light foot traffic just outside the door clashes with the jovial shouts of his battlebuddies and the rumble of trucks. The air is more humid in London, the sun less piercing. But it’s the difference in the man standing before him that keeps John from falling into memories.

“Major.” The response is automatic, and John offers a wry smile before adding, “Uh, Captain’s not really the right title for me anymore, I think.”

“No. Nor I,” Sholto responds slowly.

There’s a silence that nearly stretches into awkward territory while John catalogues the changes in Sholto’s physicality and demeanour. No doubt Sholto is doing the same of him.

Both of them have lost the youthful gild they possessed in the early days in Afghanistan. John knows that he has a matching set of the weary wrinkles have made incursions onto Sholto’s face. The stressors of living as men of action are what put those lines there in the first place, and the grim daily reminders of what they each have lost reinforce and deepen them.

Sholto is wearing a heavy coat despite the muggy August weather. John wonders how much more of the same scarring that encompasses nearly half of his face is being concealed. He’s holding his left arm stiffly - hell, his whole body is practically in an ‘at ready’ stance, like he is barely resisting the urge to escape.

And yet within this clash of past and present, a tiny flare of arousal sparks. There’s a flash of curiosity, of wondering if Sholto is here intending to resume where they left off. Is there still attraction between them? Or was that all left behind them in that infirmary room years ago?

Then the contents of the newspaper article he’d read months ago come to mind and tamp down his libido. He _had_ meant to catch up with his former commander after reading it, but there were cases or blogging or keeping Sherlock from being extraordinarily reckless to tend to. Now, he regrets not calling - he remembers the isolation, the emptiness. To have the addition of public scorn, and in some extreme cases hatred, must have been unbearable.

“Odd location to find you, Watson. Though I really oughtn’t be surprised - you were the best tattooer for miles in Afghanistan.”

“Only one on base, you mean.” John leans back on the stool and allows his mind to temporarily dwell on those halcyon days. “But I did take pride in every bit of ink I laid. Never had any complaints, excepting the few who wanted bigger or more colourful designs than my supplies would allow.”

“Ah, the impertinence of the young and impulsive.” Sholto’s eyes track around the shop. “No doubt you get a steady stream of such customers here, being so close to the university.”

John shrugs. “It’s a mix, really. But yeah, every now and again we get a few drunken college kids who think that getting some massive tribal piece is going to impress someone.”

Sholto snorts quietly. “And you oblige?”

“Not usually. There’s less intensity…less urgency here. Clients are just customers, not mates you spend nearly every waking moment with.” The circumstances and demands were so much more immediate in Afghanistan. “On the plus side,” John adds with a smirk, “here I have a permanent set-up and practically endless ink.”

Sholto glances around John’s station, eyes lingering momentarily on some of the flash art that decorates his walls, stopping at one of their regimental crest hanging over John’s tray.

“You know, you’re a difficult man to find, Watson.”

“Not exactly like I’m hiding.”

John instantly regrets his glib response. Sholto’s gaze becomes unfocused, lost for long moments.

But Mary shifts some papers next door, and Sholto blinks and returns to the present. “No. You aren’t,” he agrees, calmly.

John swallows, clenches and unclenches his fist. “I, uh, didn’t mean-”

“Watson, it’s fine.”

They lapse into an awkward silence during which John contemplates the mechanics and merits of actually shoving his foot into his mouth.

Sholto shifts his weight, looks like he is considering leaving. “Well, glad I caught you and - ”

John quickly pipes up. “What about dinner?” He nervously clears his throat. “Um, I mean, do you have time for dinner? Maybe even come back to my place for drinks after?”

Sholto shakes his head. “Just in town for a short while to take care of some business that could only be conducted in person. I heard you were here and decided to look in once I was finished to see if it was true and on the off chance you would be around.”

Such a timetable would leave little opportunity to catch up. John wonders if maybe that’s by design. “How long do you have?”

“About an hour. My car service is scheduled to return then.”

Though he knows it’s probably futile to offer, John tries anyway. “I could give you a ride home, so you can stay longer, if you’d like.”

Sholto gives him a small smile that does not quite reach his eyes. “Thank you, Watson, but that won’t be necessary.”

“Can I at least convince you to join me in the flat upstairs for a cuppa? My next appointment isn’t for another two hours, and Mary is currently taking care of any walk-ins.”

There is a moment where John thinks Sholto is just going to shake his head and make his excuses and leave. He even turns away slightly, his left side angled toward the door, his face closing off.

“Please, sir. I’d really like it if you stayed.”

Sholto freezes. John watches his chest expand, hold for several seconds, and then sink back down, his shoulders slumping a little. It’s like he’s bowing to the inevitable, like a quick meeting was all he thought he had the energy for but is now being cowed into doing something he really doesn’t want. John aches at the stiffness in their exchange, at how forced it all seems. It makes him feel like shite to put pressure on him like this.

“I suppose so,” is Sholto’s soft response. “But not for too long.”

John nods his understanding and pushes down on the hopeful bubbling in his gut. Sholto’s reluctant agreement stings a bit - not as severely as an outright rejection, but it still hurts. He stands and gestures toward the back of the shop. “This way. Follow me, yeah?”

He takes the lead on the stairs despite his desire to catch an eye-full of Sholto’s arse. Even nearly three years later, he still has it bad for this man.

“This is Mary’s place,” he explains as they enter the flat, “but she lets me kip in the spare bedroom when I have a late session and am too wiped to make it back to my own flat.”

The living room is a bit of a mess, but in a lived-in sort of way. It’s in stark contrast to the state of 221B - he hasn’t had the time or energy or interest in doing anything about the books, papers, and knick-knacks that litter every surface. He has mostly slogged to and from the bedroom and bathroom, cleaning and maintaining only what he absolutely needs to use.

“How about that cuppa?”

“Thank you, no.”

John tries again. “Water, then?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Can I at least take your coat so you can be more comfortable?”

Sholto looks extremely disconcerted at the prospect of being stripped of his outerwear, but slowly unzips and removes the coat using only his right arm and hands it to John. He’s wearing a deep navy dress shirt beneath, and for the briefest moment, John is so strongly reminded of Sherlock’s wardrobe that he almost stops dead and stares.

Instead, he swallows and gestures toward the sofa. “Sit?”

Sholto gingerly folds himself onto the end, breathing out in a painful-sounding wheeze as he does. John pretends not to hear as he drapes Sholto’s coat over the rocker in the corner and sits himself at the other end of the sofa.

“So how -”

“Do you -”

They both stop and John smiles nervously.

“You first, Watson,” offers Sholto.

“It’s really not that important. I was just wondering how that tattoo I did for you a while back is holding up.”

That must not be what Sholto was expecting at all, because he looks momentarily stunned.

“I, uh,” John backpedals, “It’s just something I’ve done anytime I meet up with any of the old crowd. I like to see how the ink has worn after all these years.”

“Seen many of the others, then?”

John shakes his head. “Besides Williams and Murray, no. And Murray just wanted those free touch-ups I promised. Never thought anyone would want to take me up on them, in truth.”

“I find that difficult to believe.” Sholto almost smiles and John greedily takes in the sight. “Corporal Murray was a rather eager customer, if I recall.”

John cracks a smile himself. “Yeah, he was. His tattoos have held up well, actually - he surprisingly listened to my aftercare advice, unlike some guys.” John eyes Sholto’s chest. “How about yours?”

“I don’t think you really want to have to take a look at this old skin.”

“You think I haven’t tattooed anyone older than you? Let me tell you, there have been some intrepid grannies who have requested stuff that even the bikers don’t want.”

Sholto’s smile widens minutely. John congratulates himself, focussing on the way Sholto’s eyes crinkle and his shoulders incrementally relax.

John tries to recline into the sofa, throwing an arm over the back to appear at ease. “Seriously, though. I really would like to see it.” He hastens to add, “If you’re comfortable with that, that is.”

He knows he’s being persistent, though not why. He isn’t lying about wanting to see how his handiwork has held up over the years. But there’s something else there, too. A longing to see the battle damage perhaps, to know how a body weathers the sort of trauma that Sholto has suffered. Does that make him too much like Sherlock - pushing past another person’s clearly defined boundaries for his own knowledge?

And then there’s the fact that he really does want to get Sholto’s shirt off for less scientific reasons. He is fresh off of the grief of losing Sherlock, and Sholto and this entire moment in time are completely removed from the post-injury John Watson. He has been so fixated on his melancholy and frustration over Sherlock’s ‘suicide fall’ a few months ago that he has completely left behind his old life, the life he had with Sherlock. But he still feels some connection to Sholto, the first such feeling since he lost Sherlock. Sure, it’s nothing like what he had with Sherlock. How could it be? But maybe it doesn’t have to be anything so profound. Maybe it can just be two broken people, both struggling with recent trauma, finding comfort in who they used to be.

Or maybe something like that is not even on Sholto’s radar. It’s not like he's gotten any easier to read. Harder, really.

Sholto sighs, closing his eyes and bowing his head. John’s guilt increases, but before he can say anything, Sholto begins unbuttoning his shirt clumsily with his right hand.

There is a moment when John considers helping him, but Sholto opens his eyes, and the grim determination in them keeps John at bay. He will respect his former commander, even in this.

The cotton parts, revealing skin and ink, and John tries to not gasp aloud but fails.

 

—*** — ***** —*** —***** —*** —***** —*** —***** —*** —***** —*** —

 

2.5 YEARS AGO

 

John notices Major James Sholto immediately when he steps off the tarmac onto the base outside of Kandahar. Sholto’s taller than the rest of the officers, but he hardly needs the excess height to stand out, what with his intense eyes and no-nonsense demeanor. Without any conscious effort on John’s part, he becomes the first person John’s eyes find in the mess, is the easiest to notice when John is dropping off paperwork at command, and whenever Sholto’s unit has to report to the med bay pre- or post-mission, John cannot help but glance quickly his way before tending to the other waiting soldiers.

He knows it’s not his imagination that Sholto is watching him, too. In the past, John’s always been the pursuer, the one firmly in control of any flirtation. He has a knack for reading a situation and quickly determining how to best wield flirtation to get his target right where he wants them.

This time the power dynamic is not so clear. He gives Sholto many opportunities to take things further, drops plenty of hints that he’s interested, but Sholto just doesn’t bite. Instead, he seems to be circling John, evaluating him for...John doesn’t know. Is Sholto unsure about him or is there something else going on? Whatever the case, Sholto constantly keeps him excitedly off-balance.

For example, there’s a day a few months after John has arrived, when the unit is using their liberty to blow off some steam by playing rugby in the open area near the vehicle maintenance and repair facilities. Sholto doesn’t usually join, few of the higher-ranks do, but that day he strips off his uniform top and puts on one of the spare black singlets the other team is wearing. John, in his white tee, tries not to make it obvious that he is giving Sholto’s torso an appreciative once-over. Murray playfully shoves him and John elbows him back in the ribs, not too hard because he doesn’t want to handicap any of his team while he shows off for Sholto.

Two scrums later and Sholto has tackled him, hovering over John for longer than is strictly necessary. John looks up into Sholto’s twinkling eyes and Sholto slyly winks at him before pushing back up to standing and offering a hand. John takes it a little nervously, thrown off-guard by how much he feels like a light-headed sop, and nearly stumbles into Sholto’s chest as Sholto uses more strength than necessary to lever him to his feet.

“You ok there, Watson?”

“Um, yeah,” he hastily responds, brushing off some dirt. “Nice tackle, sir.”

Sholto flashes a half-grin, looks him up and down, and says, “Thanks. Not so bad yourself. You played back home?”

“Practically since I could walk,” John says proudly.

“I can see that,” Sholto agrees, giving him one more lingering, appreciative look before jogging back over to his team, leaving John to stare after him dumbly until Murray shouts to ask if he’s still planning on playing anymore or if that hit was too much for a girl like him. John just rolls his eyes and offers a single-finger salute.

\- - -

After that, there are more appreciative glances and ‘convenient’ run-ins, but nothing comes of any of it until nearly a fortnight later, when John is finishing up his duty shift for the day in the med bay and Sholto approaches him.

Before he can go through the motions of appropriately acknowledging a superior officer, Sholto barks at him, “At ease, Captain.”

John relaxes out of the automatic stance and waits curiously for Sholto’s next directive. As far as he knows, none of Sholto’s men are in recovery nor do they have an upcoming mission.

“I hear you are the person to talk to about getting a tattoo.”

“You’ve, uh, heard correctly,” John responds, wondering if Sholto is going to bust him for improper use of time or resources or something else. Although tattoos aren’t regulated out here and neither is downtime, many of the men on base have requested his services in the last few months, potentially drawing the (unhappy?) attention of higher-ups.

“Relax, Watson. You’re not in trouble.”

John lets out an uneasy breath. “Yeah? Then did someone have a complaint, sir?”

“No.” Sholto looks amused. “The opposite in fact.”

Doing good work in every facet of his life is a point of pride for John. That Sholto has heard positive things makes him feel slightly giddy.

But if Sholto isn’t chewing him out, but rather complimenting him, that would mean…

“ _You_ want a tattoo?”

Sholto raises an eyebrow and angles his head slightly. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“No, sir. Just…never imagined you’d be asking me for one.”

“Well, I am.” Sholto’s eyes focus intently on him. “Are you the man for the job?”

“Uh, depends on what you want. I don’t have any coloured inks right now,” admits John. “So, it’s only black and greys that I make from diluting the black.”

He hates the irrational need to apologize that rushes at him abruptly. It’s ridiculous - the military has mostly beaten that out of him by this point. But when it comes to Sholto, something in his brain short-circuits.

“That’s fine. How soon can you do it?”

John frowns. “Is there some kind of time restriction I should know about?”

“No, just keen to get it taken care of.”

“Okay. I have time now, if you want. I just need to prepare the area.” His evening plans had included wanking and more wanking, so this is infinitely more exciting. Just the prospect of potentially getting Sholto’s shirt off and getting to touch his skin leaves John feeling slightly giddy.

Sholto glances around the empty med bay. “Here?”

“The most sterile place around. Unless you _want_ your new tattoo to get infected?” teases John. “Come on.”

He leads Sholto to one of the private rooms in the back, then shuts and locks the door behind them. Sholto watches silently as John reaches behind the trauma cart for his med kit where he has stashed his tattooing gear.

“How’d you swing this arrangement?”

“Murray works graveyard,” explains John. “He lets me have one of the private rooms as long as I return everything to the way it was, and I feed his ink addiction.”

Sholto raises an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah, every month. You obviously have not had cause to see his back.”

“And have you had cause, besides the tattooing?”

Is that interest in John’s extracurriculars? John sure hopes so. “Erm, no. Just the tattooing.”

Sholto settles onto the end of the examination table. “How long will it take to heal?”

“Is this your first tattoo, sir?”

“Yes. Does that matter?”

John shrugs. “I tend to explain things more extensively for first-timers.” His curiosity is piqued. “What made you want to get your first one from a doctor in a war-zone? Not that I’m complaining.”

Sholto gives him a thin smile, but does not answer his question. “How long?”

“If you clean it properly and apply lotion religiously, anywhere between two and four weeks. You’ll probably need a touch-up no matter what - out here ink tends to fall out a bit more because we’re all so active. And you’ll have to really restrict sun exposure for at least the first month.”

Sholto grunts his acknowledgment and John swivels around to face his tattooing kit, where he pulls out his sketchbook and the tracing paper. It also gives him an opportunity to breathe properly for a moment, trying not to remember what Sholto’s skin had looked like in the sun the other day when they’d played rugby.

“What do you want? I assume you have something in mind since you’re so keen to get it tonight,” says John. “I can draw something if you don’t have any references. I’ll just need you to describe as much detail as possible, especially if it’s some kind of animal.” References are unsurprisingly difficult to come by here - it’s not like he can easily Google search and print out a few different versions for comparison.

“I know you can draw, Watson. Andrews showed me the sketch you did of that scorpion. It was well done.”

John blushes a bit involuntarily. “Well, I did a lot of doodling in school.” Mostly while he was supposed to be paying attention in science class, which he knows is ironic.

“It’s obvious from that design.” Sholto begins unbuttoning his uniform top. “For mine, I want just a line of text on my ribs.”

That stills John’s hands for a moment. “You know, that’s a particularly sensitive and painful spot. Probably the most painful location to get a tattoo. I don’t want you passing out on me.”

Sholto gives him a wry look.

“Erm, not that you would. It’s just, first-timers often experience dizziness, regardless of how pain-tolerant they are,” explains John. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. ”

“Do I look like I am?”

“No,” admits John, pulling out some gauze. Actually, Sholto looks anything but worried. Keen, maybe? “Just warning you.”

Sholto finishes removing his shirt, carefully folds it, and places it on the nearby chair. He strips his undershirt and adds it to the pile.

John tries not to stare, he really does. “Is there a particular font you want? Or style?”

Sholto shrugs. “Your handwriting will do.”

His scrawl permanently etched on Sholto’s skin? Yes, please.

“So, what’s the line? I will put it on paper and you can decide if it works for you or if you want something different.”

“It’s a name.”

“Oh?” John picks up his pencil and prepares to write. A name is hardly a novel request. Plenty of guys ask for the names of their partners from home framed by a ribbon or something personally symbolic. A small amount of wind goes out of John’s libido.

“Liam Walsh.” Sholto’s voice has abruptly gone flat.

John inhales sharply. Liam Walsh. The poor bastard who’d bought the farm only a week ago after an uncleared land mine detonated under the convoy. The private was dead before they made it back to base.

But why would Sholto want _his_ name permanently inked onto his ribs? It’s not like they were mates or anything - Walsh was transferred only a week before he’d died, so it’s unlikely Sholto had had sufficient time to form any real connection to him.

Despite his desperate desire to understand, John just carefully prints the name. He passes the paper to Sholto and waits for his input.

“Yes.” Sholto is still speaking in that strangely flat voice.

“What size do you want it?”

Sholto hands the paper back. “This is fine as is.”

“Don’t be afraid to otherwise speak up. This is going to be on your skin for the rest of your life.”

Sholto’s ice blue eyes laser-focus on him. “I’m well aware of that fact.”

John swallows. There is definitely something more to this he is not getting.

“It’s fine the way it is, Watson. Put it here.” Sholto points to a spot just above the seventh rib on his right side.

“Ok.” John meticulously copies the text onto transfer paper, and remembers one more thing in the middle. “You’ve eaten today, yeah?” he asks.

“I’m not an idiot, Watson.”

“It’s a common first-timer mistake,” John says. “I’m just not really keen on you passing out on me.”

“Did Murray?”

John snorts. “Oh yeah. Twice.”

“How do you want me?”

John swallows and has to remind himself that Sholto is not thinking of anything besides the tattoo, even if John is.

“Right, uh, probably most comfortable for you and easiest for me to access you if you lay down on the table.”

Sholto raises an eyebrow and smirks, and a giddy trickle runs its way down John’s spine. Was there really that much innuendo in that last sentence?

“But, uh, I need to disinfect everything first. This _is_ a hospital, but I am doctor, so I tend to be more attentive to sterilization than I likely need to be.”

Sholto hops off of the table and John wipes it and the other surfaces down.

“Usually I have this all prepared beforehand,” John explains, knowing it is unnecessary, but feeling the need to show that he is actually competent and capable. Which is ridiculous, since Murray regularly ribs him for being cocky. He does have it bad for Sholto.

“We haven’t talked price yet, Watson.”

John finishes cleaning and tosses the paper towels in the bin. “I’m sure we can figure something out, yeah?”

Sholto just fixes him with a smirk and returns to the table, this time in a prone position. John’s eyes follow the trail of light hair across Sholto’s pectorals down to where his trousers and belt abruptly block his perusal. It’s nothing that John has not seen before while passing Sholto entering or exiting the showers (less, even), but the context is different here. He is going to be touching Sholto, pressing ink into his skin, causing pain and sharing in that experience.

A tingle of arousal swirls through John and spirals into his groin. He has to force himself to turn away from the tempting tableau before him and toward the hand-wash station.

 _Get a grip, Watson_ , he chides himself as he scrubs. _Stop making this into something more. He just wants a tattoo, that’s all. Not anything like what you keep imagining. The only flirting with intention going on right now is from your end._

He finishes washing, then dries his hands and returns to his meticulously-kept equipment. It is easy to fall back on habit as he covers the bottles in plastic,

There’s a delicious sense of anticipation before John begins any tattoo. The un-inked skin, waiting to be covered in John’s careful lines, thorough shading, and when available, colour. It’s the potential, the ‘what could be’ that gets John’s heart rate up and adrenaline going.

It’s nearly the same anticipation John always gets before he gets to taste his lover. But he seriously doubts that that will be the way this evening turns out. Sholto is incredibly private, choosing to spend most of his time in his quarters, separate from the others in the unit. He’d be as likely to accept John’s advances as to offer them.

So John focuses exclusively on preparing his equipment, putting on a pair of latex gloves, retrieving the bag from the autoclave, pulling out the needle bar and tube. He sets the disposable ink cap down on the tray and fills it with black ink. He finishes getting ready by pulling out a fresh needle from the autoclave bag and slotting it into the tattoo machine.

He has slightly less ink than he anticipated, but short of writing home to Harry (which is a terrible idea) or finding contact information for some of his old tattooing crowd (which would probably require an exhaustive Internet search), he does not anticipate being able to properly renew his supply. Sometimes McGowan can smuggle him in some bottles with the other contraband, but they are set to be cycled through soon, so John expects to see an end to that as a viable means of acquiring ink.

But for tonight, he will have enough for Sholto’s tattoo. It’s small, though the script is thick and carefully spaced in order to keep it legible over time. Aftercare is always important for those he tattoos on base, and keeping them properly moisturized is quite the challenge in the desert. More than one guy has come back to him with bloody, raw skin because their uniform rubbed the lotion off and they couldn’t get back to base in time to reapply it. Usually John can reassure the panicked guy that though some of the ink will fall out, a touch-up when they get home will take care of it.

He doesn’t anticipate running into that problem with Sholto - the man is admirably careful and meticulous.

“I recommend putting your arm above and behind your head so that I can have easiest access.”

Sholto nods and does as asked. John tries not to watch the musculature below Sholto’s skin (the very skin he will soon be touching) or think about the bite-able nipples within reach. And the pose Sholto is striking is not alluring or erotic in any way. No, John is definitely not imagining Sholto laying himself out completely naked, ready for John to join him. And he’s not imagining the sensation of his skin gliding against Sholto’s as he brings their bodies together.

Nope, not thinking about any of that.

Attempting to remain professional, John turns back to his tray, slightly disappointed that he will not be able to touch Sholto’s skin without his latex gloves in the way. He grabs the razor and the antiseptic soap, applying the latter to the spot Sholto had indicated, following up with the razor. He wets a cotton pad with alcohol and rubs, checking to be sure that the area is completely clear of the few strands of light blond hair sprinkling Sholto’s chest.

He discards the disposable razor, cuts around the design and then hovers it over where Sholto had pointed to get a feel for the position. John grabs the deodorant from his tattooing kit and rubs it on the cleared spot, spraying one side of the stencil with alcohol. Using a combination of experience and eyeballing, he gently applies it to Sholto’s ribs in the perfect orientation and carefully peels it away, leaving the outline in its wake. John moves in close to critically check it for clarity and crispness, trying to ignore the fact that he is now a hair's-breadth away from Sholto’s chest and the opportunity to lick it.

He gently blows in order to keep the ink from smearing. A tremble passes across Sholto’s skin and goose pimples rise in its wake. John scrutinizes the outline momentarily, then looks up at Sholto’s inquiring gaze.

John reaches behind him and retrieves a mirror from his tray. “Here, check to be sure you like the position. You can sit up if you want.”

Sholto props himself up on his left arm and tilts the mirror. He looks for a few seconds, then grunts affirmatively and returns the mirror.

“Good,” John adds, unnecessarily filling the quiet space. Most of the soldiers he tattoos are nervous and talkative young guys, who he sometimes has to tell to shut up so he can concentrate. Sholto’s not going to be anything like that.

The tattoo gun fits into his left hand as comfortably as does his gun in the field and his scalpel in the operating arena. He rests the heel of his right hand on Sholto’s ribcage, carefully stretching the skin where he plans to ink. He tests the gun one final time, makes sure all the parts are moving harmoniously, then dips the needle tips into the ink and brings it back to Sholto’s skin.

“Ready?” he asks, but not really meaning it, more as confirmation that Sholto is prepared for the pain to come.

Sholto nods once and then returns his eyes to the spot that will soon be receiving John’s ink.

Some of the guys look away, convinced that the pain is less if they are not watching, similar to the mentality of people getting vaccinations. Others like to watch, to see their skin transforming, to keep track of John to make sure he does not make a mistake. John’s not offended by those who are worried he will mess up - there are entire websites dedicated to bad tattoos.

But John has never made an error on human skin before, and he does not plan on starting now.

The whir of the tattoo gun is like a happy drove of active bees on a summer’s day, busy and focused. Experience takes over and John lets his steady fingers direct the insertion of ink, keeps his lines straight, is true to the stencil. The pedal responds to his careful application of pressure and he feels like the gun is an extension of himself, steady and sure.

Despite John’s expectations and his experience with other rib tattoos, Sholto does not flinch at the first drill of the needle into the thin, sensitive skin covering his torso. His face is a mask of concentration and steadfastness. It’s slightly disarming, really. John’s still not sure about Sholto’s motivations for getting this tattoo, but he seems hyper-focused on experiencing every bit of it.

The entire tattoo takes less than ten minutes. It’s simple linework, no shadowing or special stippling. John carefully wipes away the blood, plasma, and excess ink to check his handiwork. Everything is as it should be, so he swivels around to discard of the disposable towel, then remove the needle from the gun, dropping it into the nearby sharps box and pulling off his gloves.

This is usually when he gives his speech about aftercare. But there is an intensity to this moment, a growing sense of anticipation. Sholto’s countenance has relaxed, like he has accepted and moved beyond the pain. It’s a common thing in John’s experience - people adapt to the sensation, allowing their inhibitions and tension to melt away. But Sholto’s breathing has not evened out like it should as someone relaxes into the experience.

John risks a glance toward Sholto’s groin and realizes the trousers are slightly-tented. Two thoughts immediately occur - Sholto has gone commando tonight and that he is turned on by what just happened. But is it the pain he’s attracted to or John? He licks his lips and turns his head back. Sholto is looking straight at him, facial expression completely unreadable. A tiny spike of terror shoots up John’s spine as he tries not to think about the fact that he has been caught checking out his commanding officer.

Sholto must pick up on some of that emotion, because one corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah, Watson?”

John swallows. What exactly is Sholto saying, and is it what John hopes?

Sholto reaches down and presses the heel of his hand against the swell in his trousers. The twitch becomes a smirk.

“You ever have someone respond this way before?” he asks, his eyes sweeping up and down John’s figure.

Oh, this is a game John knows how to play. He’s not ‘Three-Continents Watson’ for nothing. “And if I have?”

Sholto unbuckles his belt slowly. John watches the strap slide through the loops, then get carelessly tossed over the edge of the table. Next is the button and zip on Sholto’s trousers, which are quickly dispatched. Sholto reaches in and pulls out his hard cock, keeping his eyes focused on John the entire time.

John inhales sharply. Did Sholto plan this? Purposely not put on pants that morning in hopes of cornering John for ink and something more afterward?

Sholto ghosts a finger up and down his fraenulum, then rings it around the crown. He does it again and again and again, until a bead of precome wells up at the tip. John unconsciously leans forward and has to quickly rock back to keep from falling off the chair.

Chuckling, Sholto uses his thumb to collect the liquid and brings it to John’s slightly-open mouth and paints his lower lip with it. John’s tongue quickly chases after. Bitterness and salt explode across his taste buds, and after a taking a second to appreciate the taste, John uses his teeth on his lower lip to catch anything he missed.

Sholto watches raptly, then shifts toward John on the exam table, propping himself up on his right elbow, keeping the fresh ink clear of table’s surface. His left hand remains at his cock, wrapping about the length and languidly tugging. Every few strokes, Sholto grunts deep in his throat and his hips twitch forward on his down stroke.

A flush paints over Sholto’s chest and cheeks and John watches in complete fascination, following it from Sholto’s cheeks down to where his hand is working. Sholto’s eyelids are half-closed in pleasure, the symphony of sounds produced by his affected breathing and his body moving on the table, enticing John’s cock into filling completely.

Sholto’s eyes snap open the same moment John considers moving his hand toward his own erection. “Are you just going to sit there and watch me get off?”

“What-” John’s voice temporarily catches in his throat, so he pauses to clear it. “Uh, what did you have in mind?”

“Fucking you. Up against this table.”

Some of John’s bravado returns in the face of that entirely enticing prospect. “You’re going to need something to help you with that, yeah?”

“I don’t doubt you can find something in this very room to satisfy that need.” Sholto’s hand slows. “Get undressed while you figure out what I will use on you.”

John strips his shirt and undershirt in one motion. Sholto pushes himself up and off the table so he can toe off his shoes and socks before removing his trousers and adding them to the chair with his neatly folded shirt. He stands expectantly by as John does the same.

John hastily reaches into into an overhead cabinet for a couple of satchels of medical lube, then to a bin of condoms that he keeps on hand for the other soldiers. He offers both to Sholto, who takes them and then gives John a meaningful look.

That’s all the direction John needs – he turns to bend over the tattooing table and arches his back slightly. Sholto nudges his ankles with a foot, directing John to spread his legs further apart. There is a pause, long enough that John almost lifts his head to see what is causing the hold up, and then there is a warm, slick finger stroking from his perineum backward.

John sucks in a breath and nearly drops his head onto the table in relief. Non-clinical touch is rare out here, and most exchanges are quick, mutual hand jobs. To have the time and attention to do this properly is beyond a treat.

“Yeah?” Sholto checks as he circles the rim of John’s hole, gentle but insistent.

“Yeah,” breathes John, reminding himself to relax despite the lovely anticipation.

The tip of Sholto’s finger dips into him, then out again. He goes back to stroking around John’s hole, the heat of his breath just to the right of his finger indicating Sholto is bent over, watching as his fingers fuck John. The finger dips back in, lightly, like he is gently testing the reaction. John relaxes into it and Sholto finally presses his finger in further, then all the way. His other hand tightens around John’s thigh as his finger begins to slowly pump in and out. The puffs of breath still come, even as another finger presses into him alongside the first. John moans at the increased pressure and Sholto strokes the hand on his thigh up and around, rubbing at the sensitive crease between leg and groin of John’s inner thigh.

“Unnnghhh,” John whines and tries to press forward, desperate to rut against the table, to transfer the pleasure to his aching cock.

“Ah ah,” Sholto admonishes, slowing his fingers. “You are no longer in charge of when you orgasm - I am. And you will, but only once I decide you are ready.”

Then Sholto’s middle finger trips over John’s prostate, and John immediately bucks. It’s sharply thrilling, electric. He couldn’t keep himself still if he tried.

But Sholto doesn’t see it that way. He slaps John’s arse cheek. “No, you will stay still.”

And then John’s lost in the feeling of Sholto’s fingers working him open, making him ready. There is a surety and confidence that calms some of the frazzle, that tells John he is in the right hands, that Sholto is going to take care of him, of his body, his pleasure. John gives himself over to that feeling completely, the bliss ratcheting up incrementally.

Sholto suddenly lightly bites John’s arse to the left of where his fingers are working, and the shock of it, the unexpectedness is enough to distract him from the addition of another finger. As Sholto works John open, he leaves an excess of lube around his hole, making John shiver in anticipation of how it’s going to feel when Sholto enters him. He moans, but quickly bites down on it, trying to keep quiet because Murray is only two rooms over.

Fortunately, Sholto seems to intuitively understand this. “Do you need help staying quiet?

“God, yes.”

Sholto leans forward, pressing his chest against John’s back, and it occurs to John that he ought to warn Sholto about keeping his tattoo away from any rubbing or abrading, which will ruin it.

“Careful of your–”

“I know, Watson. Now open your mouth.”

John’s jaw drops obediently, and Sholto stuffs the first two fingers of his other hand in. The rough finger pads stroke against John’s tongue, and he rolls it around them and sucks.

Sholto groans above him and John grins a little. He pushes Sholto’s fingers over with his tongue and mildly squeezes them with his molars, then goes back to sucking.

“Lovely,” Sholto growls, splitting his fingers to run them along either side of John’s tongue. “And as much as I would love to keep you like this indefinitely, I think I would very much would like to fuck you now.”

John sighs happily through his nose. Sholto seems satisfied with his response and how he has stretched John open, so he withdraws his fingers from both John’s mouth and arsehole. John hears the condom wrapper being torn and the pause while Sholto rolls it on, his hole pulsing in excitement and anticipation.

When the pause stretches beyond reason, John squirms and calls out, “Come on.”

Sholto chuckles, then begins to slowly feed his cock into John, who immediately reaches out to brace himself on the edges of the table.

There’s pressure, so much pressure. John’s back bows, pushing Sholto another few centimeters inside, the stretch slow going. Sholto just keeps pressing in, unrelenting, determined to bottom out inside him without stopping.

Small puffs of warm air pepper John’s back as the fronts of Sholto’s thighs meet up with the back of John’s. A bead of sweat runs down John’s spine and he briefly wonders if Sholto will lick it off before realizing that that is probably not something he does. Instead, Sholto’s fingertips dig into his arse cheeks and spreads them. John glances over his shoulder to see Sholto looking down at where his cock is stuffed into his arse. Sholto releases a hand and reaches down to rub his thumb along the edge of where they are joined and John nearly gasps at the white hot pleasure that is transmitted to every nerve in his body. Sholto seems satisfied with this and rocks backward until most of his cock is unsheathed, then almost as quickly pushes back into John. The force of his thrust presses John down onto the table firmly and Sholto reaches a hand up and wraps it around the back of John’s neck. He squeezes gently, then repeats his movements, moving just fast enough to make John want to whimper every time his cock withdraws, but slow enough that John feels every bit of his cock stroking along his insides.

It’s friction and pressure and unending pleasure. Sholto presses John’s head into the table with his palm and begins thrusting faster, and John’s cock, trapped beneath him, releases a pulse of precum. John’s so turned on right now that he thinks that the friction from the table might be enough to push him to orgasm.

Sholto must sense this, because the hand on the back of John’s neck releases. He winds an arm across John’s chest and pulls him away from the table and back into his chest. The other hand stays firmly on John’s hip, bracing it so that he can continue fucking up into him, the slapping of flesh on flesh pleasingly rhythmic. This new position puts John’s prostate in the path of Sholto’s thrusts, and a zing of pleasure shoots straight to his cock with every pass. Sholto’s dog tags rest on his back in this position, an unexpected touchpoint.

Sholto repeatedly bites at the junction between his neck and shoulder, timing the pulse of his bite to coincide with each inward thrust. This metric soon becomes the most important thing to John - the sensation of tightening teeth preempts the brush of Sholto’s cock against his prostate, making the time between bites exquisite anticipatory torture. From the grin he feels against his skin, John knows that Sholto is enjoying himself. Hell, John’s more than enjoying himself, as his now freely-leaking cock will attest. This is definitely the best shag he’s had in Afghanistan, unbelievably intense and thorough. John has not even touched his cock and strangely doesn’t feel inclined to. He is here for Sholto’s pleasure, and anything that happens to him in the process is a bonus.

And God, the things that are happening to him. His arse is verging on over-sensitization, his skin is hot and sweating and almost too constricting. Sholto has lowered his hand and is actively pinching a nipple, sweet pain blossoming.

Sholto begins to speed up and John stops holding in the whinge that has been trapped behind his tongue. The fingers pinching his nipple release and then slide up John’s chest to reach his throat, where they slowly wrap around right below his jaw. Sholto’s thumb anchors itself right where John’s jaw angles up toward his ear, the other four fingers stroking surprisingly gently.

“You ready to come, Watson?” Sholto’s voice is low and warm in his ear.

John tries not to sound incredibly desperate. “Yes.”

“Too fucking bad. I’m not finished with you, yet.”

Sholto pulls out of him and John’s breath presses out of his chest in a rush. There is a pause, and then the slick, juicy sounds of a hand re-lubing a cock. John swallows and then takes a deep breath. God, it sounds so filthy, so indecent.

“Brace yourself on the counter,” commands Sholto. “And don’t you dare touch yourself.”

The counter is a half meter higher than the table, and John estimates that the new leverage will give him a chance to push back against Sholto’s thrusts. He places his hands like he is preparing to do a push up and waits, his cock erect and heavy between his legs. John desperately wants to reach down and relieve himself - he was so close to coming. But his commander’s orders ring in his head. He will obey.

Sholto does not even bother to part his arse in preparation - he just plunges his cock inside John’s already wet and open hole, then braces his arms alongside John’s on the counter. They are touching from ankles to shoulders, Sholto using his height to his advantage, literally fucking up into John, forcing him to rise up on his tip toes to handle the force of each inward thrust, then dropping back down to the flats of his feet as Sholto pulls back out. It becomes a dance, a rippling wave of surging and receding. Sweat drips all around them as they continue fucking at unhurried but fierce pace, forming a rough outline of their joined bodies on the concrete floor. John watches as his dog tags sway underneath him, noticing the damp spot in the middle of the sweat outline that is from his dripping cock.

Sholto’s breath is hot against the back of John’s head, tiny grunts accompanying each surge of his cock into John.

And then finally, _finally_ , Sholto takes the hand he used to slick himself up for the second time and begins making small circles against the insides of John’s thigh. It’s so close to where John really wants to be touched and he whimpers just a little.

“You need me to touch you, Watson?” Sholto teases.

John nods and gasps, “Yes.” And then. “I need you to.”

Sholto’s hand gradually moves closer to his cock, the circles becoming bigger with each sweep. And then, just as he is about to make contact with the base of John’s cock, his hand changes direction, smearing lube over the patch of skin between his belly button and cock.

This time John’s arms buckle just a little. Sholto’s cock pauses on the upstroke and John is forced to re-extend his arms while on tiptoe. Sholto holds him there until John’s calves and hamstrings begin to ache with the effort of staying in position.

“I like you like this, Watson. You clench your arse so perfectly when I fuck into you it’s like a vice. I’d love to know what your pretty lips look like around my cock, if you could suck as hard on it as you did my fingers before. You’d let me fuck your mouth, wouldn’t you?”

For such an ordinarily reserved and quiet man, Sholto’s dirty talk is unexpected and unerring. John _has_ imagined sucking Sholto off in several locations all over the base. Has woken from disgustingly hot dreams with a hard on and quickly finished himself off with the last bits of the dreams still fresh in his mind. John imagines Sholto would probably gag him a little with his cock, make John work at it. He lets out a little whine in response.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’d love it.”

“Please, God, please.” John is dangerously close to getting too loud again, but he doesn’t care.

“Perfect. You and your arse are perfect. And this cock,” Sholto’s fingers finally slide down to wrap around John’s cock and begin slowly pumping, definitely not fast or tight enough. “This cock is an absolute treat.” A few more strokes. “You know, John Watson, you’ve been such a tease.” A hard thrust. “You’ve been watching me since the day you arrived, don’t think I haven’t noticed.” The pressure around his cock increases. “Developed a bit of a crush, have you?”

John gasps out, “That’s not-”

“Because,” Sholto rumbles next to John’s ear while he presses his thumb around the corona of John’s cock, “You couldn’t have been any more obvious about it if you tried.” Sholto’s now fucking into him and stroking his cock in an alternating rhythm. “I hear you’ve got quite the reputation, too.”

He’s now blushing on top of his flush, a teeny bit overwhelmed and loving every second. “It’s earned, you should know.”

“Is it?” Sholto sounds pleased over John’s response. “Seems like. So, are you ready to come?”

“Now?” _Let it be now, please let it be now_ , John’s mind begs.

“Yes, now,” Sholto growls, “Now you can come.” He works his hand on John’s cock faster and John’s vision dims as his orgasm hits him like the recoil from his assault rifle.

Sholto continues pumping into him, the resistance into John’s body much greater since he orgasmed, and comes moments later, groaning into John’s shoulder, his lips dragging across John’s skin. He keeps John up on tiptoe a few moments longer as he gives a few final half-strokes into him before pulling out completely.

They mop themselves up quickly, using extra paper towels from John’s tattoo kit. Before Sholto puts his shirt back on, John examines the fresh ink to ensure their activities have not ruined his careful work. There’s no blood, no indication of fallen out ink. The line work remains straight and even, the black appropriately saturated.

“See me in about a month so I can check this. Touch-ups are on me.”

Sholto nods.

John hastens to add, “ _Any_ time.” Though he does not say it aloud, he hopes that the fact that Sholto can have access to him, too, is implied.

“Good, I’ll be sure to take you up on that.” Sholto’s voice is muted but self-assured.

And with that, he finishes dressing and takes his leave. John cleans up the room and spends a little extra time making sure there is no evidence of what transpired. The used feeling of his arse is enough reminder, and will no doubt spur plenty of future fantasies.

\- - -

John never gets the chance to see how Sholto’s tattoo is healing. He does not even get a repeat performance. Five days later, John is trying not to bleed to death under the Afghani sun, leaving Sholto and tattooing the last thing on his mind.

 

—***** —***** —***** —***** —***** —***** —***** —***** —***** —***** —

 

There is now a long list of names running down Sholto’s ribcage, beginning with one in John’s distinctive script, several more in another, and then almost a dozen in yet another that look like they are no more than a year old.

John wants to say something meaningful. Probably should say something, anything, really as the silence stretches out between them, on the verge of becoming awkward. But the massive lump in his throat mutes him temporarily. All he can do is brush his fingertips across the series of names, starting with the one he put there first, then moving down the series below it. They have all healed properly, and his work has obviously been touched up sometime in the interim, their smooth and clean lines in stark contrast to the marred skin covering the opposite side of his ribs. John can see where the skin grafts were placed, evaluates their coverage and healing, finds them satisfactory.

Sholto stops looking at him in challenge but avoids looking anywhere near the damaged skin covering his left side.

With an audible swallow, John opens his mouth to apologize for…for all the suffering he knows Sholto has endured. For the years of loneliness and pain. But Sholto preempts him.

“From what I’ve read, you could have a name of your own here.” The fingers of Sholto’s hands reach out toward John’s ribs.

John’s throat tightens further. He’s not even supposed to know that Sherlock is still alive - were it not for the musical stanza he had tattooed on Sherlock’s arm, the one that made it clear that the wrist he tried to feel a pulse from after Sherlock’s jump from the roof was _not_ actually Sherlock’s, he would be actively grieving right now.

But he _is_ grieving. Sherlock left him behind to do God-knows-what God-knows-where. They were partners in all things, but then suddenly not.

John suddenly wonders after the timing of Sholto’s visit. Is he only here because now John has lost something, and no longer has a life and a purpose? Is he here because they now have shared pain, shared misery, are both lost souls, unable to ever return to their past lives? John managed to escape the pit of loneliness and depression after being invalided home once, but twice?

Sholto has it much worse, though, John realizes. At least John knows that Sherlock is still alive and probably coming back to him someday. Sholto does not even have that small hope, Sholto’s hope is completely gone forever, as evidenced by the way he has shut himself off from everyone and everything.

His fingers leave Sholto’s chest and he rests them on Sholto’s thighs.

“And from what _I’ve_ read, you don’t deserve any of the pain.”

Sholto won’t meet his eyes. A tiny ache settles in his chest to know Sholto perceives himself so poorly. That such a magnificent, proud person could have been reduced to this…mere shell of himself. That a man who once gave the troops such confidence could be so lacking in it in himself.

John inhales. “This doesn’t have to be…that is, I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t want to.”

Is this who they have become? Former brothers-in-arms who only read about the trauma they each have endured in newspapers? John knows he has hardly been the poster boy for healthy and reliable correspondence, but surely this, this thing which defies his vocabulary and it’s attempts at labelling is worth more than that.

The outer edges of John’s thumbs skim across the fabric of Sholto’s jeans in careful, repetitive strokes. Sholto still will not look up, but he does close his eyes in what John interprets as acceptance. Maybe even anticipation?

“Watson, I - ”

“Sssshhhhhh.” John reaches up to gently wrap a hand warmly around the back of Sholto’s neck.

Sholto inhales, stiffens again.

John is the one who initiates, leaning in and offering soft, tentative kisses. Sholto responds, but he is hesitant and guarded. Not the right time or place for this, then. Understanding, John goes no further than those first gentle kisses. Instead, he removes his own shirt and pulls Sholto in close, so that his chin is resting on John’s shoulder and John’s arms are carefully wrapped around his torso.

He lets himself imagine how this might play out if they were both a little less…broken? No, that’s not the right word, because they are both still engaged in the act of existence. Perhaps battle-damaged? Because they both need this, both want it, but neither of them can take it. So while John simply holds Sholto, his mind spins the what-might-have-been if they could both let go for a moment.

They would get up from the sofa and go to Mary’s spare bedroom, shedding clothing as they went. John thinks he would yield to Sholto’s directives, but doubts that he would give any. Their first time was fast and rough and hard, but this time would be different. Sholto’s not the same man anymore and neither is John. This time would be slow and careful. This time would remind Sholto that physical comfort exists, that he is not forbidden from experiencing it, that people who knew him from before still respect him, still defer to his stabilizing presence.

As with their first time together, there would be no kissing, no amorous declarations. Just thorough, steady grinding of cocks and heavy breathing. Scarred skin would match up with scarred skin - John can imagine the tremor of self-hatred that would run through Sholto at having this vulnerability exposed, as he knows it well himself. But he wouldn’t say anything, would not try to soothe Sholto or offer useless and ineffective platitudes. That’s not the kind of intimacy they’ve ever had, not the kind they would need right now. It would be the rawest, most exposed John would ever felt during sex. He would hide nothing from this man because he wouldn’t have to.

John thinks that Sholto’s injuries would likely make it impossible to repeat their performance all those years ago. So, John would sink down onto Sholto’s cock and face him this time. He would get to watch how Sholto’s head would fall back on his pillow, how his eyes would close, how his mouth would open when John rose up and then dropped his hips back down.

That would be confirmation enough that this was good for him, so John would focus on moving his hips. He’s a bit out of practice, both physically and emotionally, but the awkwardness would be quickly replaced with muscle memory, the intensity from years ago returning. This would not be just about sex, it’d be about connection. It would be a reminder that life is cruel and twisted and wrong, but there are these stolen moments of bliss and quiet happiness that can be found if they are not allowed to slip away. That thousands of miles and several years can pass but two people can find each other again and remember what it is to share deep intimacy.

John would lean forward, bracing himself on Sholto’s chest with his palms and change the pace, pushing it a little faster, Sholto’s cock thrusting a little shallower inside him. Sholto would look up at him in something like wonder, like he can barely accept that this is happening to him. It’d be further proof that that exchange years ago was something special, that what they are doing right here and now is special, too. John would smile fondly and Sholto would move his right arm up to grasp John’s hip, adding another touch-point of contact.

When Sholto would finally come, John imagines he would simply gasp wordlessly, blink slowly. John would reach between them for his own cock, but Sholto would beat him to it, the hand that was formerly on John’s hip wrapping around his cock and cautiously stroking. It would feel glorious, the twin sensations of Sholto’s softening cock still within him twitching and the roughened palm around his cock ratcheting his pleasure up and up and up. He would lean back so he could watch, his forearms resting on either sides of Sholto’s thighs, until he’d spill himself in Sholto’s hand, loud and appreciative, like he couldn’t be all those years ago.

But that’s not what happens. Instead, they just hold one another, sharing body heat, feeding each other’s touch starvation to the point that John feels very nearly ill from the sudden rush of endorphins, like someone who has been a glutton after being subjected to an enforced fast.

It’s not long before Sholto shifts beside him, too soon, really.

“I have to go, Watson,” admits Sholto quietly, regretfully. “My car will be waiting.”

John gets up and hands Sholto his coat, giving him space to dress. He wouldn’t want to suffer through John offering to help, or worse, actually helping.

He knows this is the last he will see of Sholto for a while, but hopefully not forever. They found each other after nearly three years and defying death once a piece. But a relationship is not something they would ever do - they are always but ships passing in the night. There’s no denying he does care for Sholto and always will. After all, there are just some people who lodge themselves in your heart forever, even if they never become a permanent fixture in your everyday life.

John moves to stand and dress himself, but Sholto just puts a hand on his shoulder. “I can show myself out.”

He limps toward the door, then pauses and half-turns.

“I have to ask before I go. Why are you really here, Watson?”

John tries to play it off, shrugging. “Passing time, I suppose. Waiting for a cue.”

Sholto studies his face, and John isn’t sure if he understands or not. Fortunately, his uncertainty is resolved when Sholto gives a perfunctory nod and advises softly, “Don’t wait forever. You deserve better…the best, really.”

He pauses a moment more, and then leaves.

John presses his lips together and falls back against the sofa suddenly drained. The universe seems to be having a laugh at them - that’s twice now that it’s thrown them together at a time when they have no hope of ever building something permanent.

Maybe they aren’t meant for something permanent.

Or maybe it’s that he’s supposed to move on? Sherlock’s gone, there’s no certainty he will return tomorrow or the next day or ever. He would spend his entire life stuck in a holding pattern, not really living. How is that fair to him?

With a sigh, John reluctantly gets up from the sofa and trudges to the bathroom to freshen up. He’s got a client coming in shortly, and he’ll need to be focussed on tattooing, not old memories.

Life just keeps going on. It always has for him, no matter how dire things have gotten or who has entered/exited his life. If he’s learned anything from Sholto’s visit, it’s that he should perhaps start living it instead of letting it go by.

With a quick nod at his reflection in the mirror, he squares his shoulders and exits the bathroom and then Mary’s flat, ready to face whatever is to come.

 

The End


End file.
